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“Uhhhmmmp,” was all I could say, spitting out horsehair as I disengaged my face from the now-immobile pony’s mane.

Justen managed not to laugh. In fact, he didn’t even grin. Just sighed.

Once I was generally back in position on Gairloch, the gray magician inclined his head toward the left. At one time there had been a crossroads, but the post showing the town that lay down the narrow path to the left had been split by weather and the part with the name was missing. The arrow still pointed through the gap in the brush, with the notation “5 k.” remaining on the bottom on the squarish pillar.

“To the left are the…is the old town of Fairhaven. I usually take my apprentices through there…but since you aren’t an apprentice…”

“Why?”

“Because it gives most of them a unique perspective. Those few who totally failed to understand never became masters…”

No matter where I went, I couldn’t get away from it. More veiled messages. Do what you want, but…

I shrugged. “Fairhaven, if you don’t mind, then.”

“It will add half a day or more to the trip.”

“Doesn’t matter to me, but if you feel we have to get somewhere quickly…you said Weevett is another day. There’s two days and more hills before we get close to Jellico.”

“It’s worth the detour…in more ways than one.” Justen didn’t seem to make a gesture, but Rosefoot began walking the trail toward Fairhaven. Unlike most of the roads I had traveled in Candar (except for the wizard’s road leaving Freetown), the path, though overgrown near the edges and far narrower than the twisting main thoroughfare, was straight.

I swished the reins, but Gairloch didn’t budge. Flamed stubborn pony! Just as I was ready to jab both boots into his flanks, he ambled forward after Rosefoot and Justen, as if he had intended to do so all along.

The path seemed scarcely more than an overgrown trail, if that, straight though it was. Though I scarcely qualified as a tracker, I looked for traces of earlier travelers, without leaning too far over in the saddle.

In the dried mud, perhaps half a kay from the fork, I saw a series of widely-spaced deer-prints, but neither hoofprints, wheel-ruts, nor boot-prints.

At one time, the road had obviously been much wider, wide enough for four wagons abreast, if the regular line of trees behind the low bushes and undergrowth signified the old road boundaries. The trees were white oaks, their branches bare in the cold.

In places, leafless creepers now crossed the track, positioned to assault the road in the spring. In less than a handful of years, the brush would reclaim the trail entirely.

“Justen, does anybody still live in Fairhaven?”

“I’m not certain. The last time I was here, there were still a few…inhabitants.”

“Wasn’t it once an important place?”

“Very important. You can see how straight the road is.”

As we approached the top of the gentle grade, the trees seemed taller, and the wind picked up, with a hint of another storm.

Looking back over my shoulder toward Howlett, and the not-so-snug Snug Inn where I had met Justen, I studied the overhanging gray clouds. But they looked no different than they had that morning—the almost featureless gray of winter, without the darkness that usually signified approaching snow.

I sniffed at the wind, sensing a bitter odor like ashes or slag, which blew from the direction of Fairhaven.

Had the once-prosperous town caught fire?

Straining in the saddle, I looked forward as the trail crested.

Nothing. The road continued straight ahead, straight down a gentle grade into a wide and shallow valley, dotted with small hills and scattered trees.

I looked again, then at Justen, whose eyes looked straight ahead, seeing nothing, or perhaps something I could not see myself. Without realizing it, I shivered—not from the cold, but from something else.

The taller trees seemed to form a pattern, although I could not discern exactly what it was. All of the taller ones seemed to be deciduous, and only a scattering of scrubby juniper brush showed green against the browns and blacks of winter.

Closer at hand, about a quarter-day ahead